


Petit Papillon

by Flower_Flame_Princess



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Avengers Family, Bisexual Steve Rogers, Bucky Barnes & Steve Rogers Friendship, Bugs & Insects, Enemies to Lovers, Everybody Loves Steve Rogers, First Kiss, Hallucinations, Hurt Steve Rogers, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Nick Fury is a Good Bro, Post-Avengers (2012), Protective Georges Batroc, Slow Burn, Steve Rogers & Natasha Romanov Friendship, Steve Rogers Has PTSD, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug, Survivor Guilt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-18
Updated: 2021-02-26
Packaged: 2021-03-14 08:54:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29539905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Flower_Flame_Princess/pseuds/Flower_Flame_Princess
Summary: It was like a never ending dream, one he was forced to watch over and over again, unable to intervene, unable to object. All he could do was sit and watch the world crumble around him, the shattered pieces thrown back at his feet, broken memories of everything best forgotten spilling through the cracks of his mind.One more mission,he tells himself, after his crippling failure.One more.But, he finds then, perhaps this is one worth completing.
Relationships: Georges Batroc/Steve Rogers
Comments: 15
Kudos: 14





	1. Hiraeth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello frens :)
> 
> So, I bet you're surprised to see there's a different ship at the top of the tags. Have I been hacked? Have I been replaced with a Skrull? Is it April's Fools already?
> 
> Steve Rogers/Georges Batroc has been something I was interested in since I saw the character in Winter Soldier, especially after I found out more about Batroc. He literally has a crush on Steve Rogers in the comics, it's amazing. In the comics, Batroc is just an amazing dude. He's the bad guy, but he has genuine respect for people, doesn't fight necessarily to win but to improve himself, doesn't go after children, doesn't cause casualties, calls people pet-names, and uses an over-the-top French accent to troll. I love him. 
> 
> I'm also really proud to tell you guys I'm the first to officially write a long-fic with this ship as the main pairing. It's an honor, and I hope you'll enjoy it, even though the ship is pretty much non-existent. But who knows? Maybe I'll inspire others! 
> 
> Have a lot of fun reading💙

Broken glass cracked beneath the soles of his heavy boots, cold wind blowing through the cracks of the groaning house he entered. The floorboards creaked, the wood vocalizing its awakening after the many years of peaceful slumber, and the door swayed back and forth on its last hinges. 

Soft breaths spun through the hallway, the sound an echo of the laughter it used to carry around the stone walls. The wind blew in from behind, playing with the few unruly strands of hair that never did want to stay behind his ear like the rest, moving out before him. It curled around his legs, pushing against his back, almost as if meaning to take his hand and guide him through a place he knew so well.

Pieces of wallpaper peeled from the sides, the paint of furniture flaking off like snow twirling from the heavens, gathering in scattered piles on the floor. 

No one was home. 

His vibrant blues bled with grief.

The comfortable chair in the living room was empty, not a trace to be found of the one he was looking for, though he knew he should have expected nothing else. The table was broken down, the room stripped of its value and worth all in the span of years, and yet they felt like seconds. A flame of pain flared up in his chest, quickly entrapped by the winter cold of his gaping memories and lost thoughts. 

His fingers trailed across the armrest, feeling the rough fabric beneath the sensitive tips. Dust stuck to him, and a frown came beneath his brows when his eye fell onto the layer of dust lying on the seat of the chair. It was pristine and kept, much like the rest of the uninterrupted picture that had once been his home. 

The dust was even, spitting him in his face as it told him no one had sat in there for a long while, and its owner was long gone, reduced to dust and dirt.

He closed his eyes, and ran.

**X**

Icy wind slashed at his face, howling through the street, and the rain drummed its evil dance upon his head, following the rhythmical sequence of its own music without a shred of mercy as he tried so frantically to get his bearings in the old, shabby backpack.

In his decision to take his jacket out of the pack, he had surrendered the rest of his stuff to the unforgiving, sudden shower. The light fabric was soaked a mere few seconds later, pulling down his already so heavy body, bringing a weight to his shoulders that he really did not need or want, but kept receiving against his will nonetheless. He supposed that was how it should be, the weight of the heavens his own to carry.

Zipping up the old backpack and hoisting it over his shoulder, his feet moved around the wooden bench towards the large, old gates, a little rusty, but well-kept by more than a few people. At least they still took care of it instead of surrendering it to the ruthless grip of nature that rusted its metal bars and overtook its freshly mowed grass. It brought him peace knowing the resting would ever be allowed to rest a little longer in a place well-looked after.

Wrapped up in his drenched clothes against the icy fingers of dawn, he closed the heavy gate behind him. It creaked like an announcing doorbell for those lying in rest behind it, the sound spinning through the air louder than he had hoped, but there was little he could do about it. He was secluded enough that no nearby neighbors would be woken by the strange sound, so he did little surveillance before he turned away, gripping the strap of his backpack a little tighter as he walked across the slippery path.

The rain was steady and harsh, falling from a world of grey above his head. The pitter-patter created a shield around him, though it pierced his skin itself all the same in its chaotic downpour. The strong wind pushed them in all directions one moment, and in ordered diagonal sheets the next. It ran down his face as a thin layer, filling his eyes and nose, they sat on his lips, entering his mouth when they parted to let out a puff of air, the steamy cloud rising towards the darkened skies.

There was not a shred of doubt in his mind whether or not this was worth it.

_It was._

Apart from the drum of the rain there was a drum in his head as well, a kind that hammered against the inside of his skull, keeping him from fastening his pace so he arrived at his destination earlier. He had to take it easy, stay calm.

From the gate he could see the faint glow of a single lantern in the far distance. There were few lights between the stretch of the gate, which made sense considering it did not give way to anyone after the sun had set. There were no lights because it was not to be wandered through by night, and yet he entered anyway, sneaking through the dark and the shower of rain with his backpack firmly on his shoulder.

The boughs of the first large tree he passed twisted down and up in a kind of frozen dance he was not familiar with. Its branches stretched out towards him like long, bony fingers, trying to grip onto his zip-up and claw into the fabric so they could make him stay. Stay and rest like the ones that rested beneath its arms and body. Each mark he laid eyes upon gave away a dwelling place that could never quite be a home to anyone, and he fastened his pace.

 _"I’m coming,"_ the voice spoke in his head, ringing loud and clear, _"I promise."_

Rain washed over his face, droplets clinging to dark lashes and running down his chin. A strong gust of wind whipped the frigid drops all around, sending them hurtling in every direction but straight down. Each droplet alighted a coolness onto his skin, a kind that cleared his mind, chasing away the gloomy fog of his head, but also the warmth from his body, as if it was trying to pull him away from the pain and the uncertainty. With the steady lift and fall of his boots he splashed through puddles of fresh water and mud. There was not a wisp of care in his body that the cold liquid seeped in through the fabric, soaking his socks and making his feet wet as well.

Something about the cold cleared his vision and his head, as if he could finally focus on anything that were not the raging thoughts he should not have. It had a purpose, unlike him.

When he did finally arrive at his destination, his heart was pounding away in his chest, going so fast it might burst from his ribcage and jump up his throat. He clenched his jaw shut tightly, to keep his heart from escaping, the words from coming and the tears from flowing. The pain in his chest was one he never thought he would feel again, let alone it was _worse_.

It was not real; he knew that. Still, that did not keep him from sitting down on the dirt on his knees, putting the backpack onto his legs so he could hug it to his stomach and chest with one arm, stretching out the other to wipe away the dirt and leaves that had gathered on the stone slab before him, feeling the cold sting of something so dark and final. His knees nearly touched it, but not quite. It was as if the thing sucked his last remaining warmth out of him, taking and taking and never once giving. It took his warmth, his joy.

It took his friend.

As fast as it coursed through his veins at one second, it was gone the next. It was but a fleeting feeling, one he was not even sure was real or not, but his lashes quivered and his heart twisted, and so he knew it existed. _Something_ about it had been real, even if it was just the knot in his stomach and the storm in his head.

He reached out towards the marble, acting on that feeling, his bare hands pale in the wintry wind of the early spring, nearly numb of the cold rain trickling down, but he did not care. The feeling of his fingertips trailing across the dark engraved lettering, feeling the smooth stone on his skin brought him a sense of peace. He knew the name by heart, and he could trace the letters without even needing to see.

_James B. Barnes_

Even in the rain and the wind and the darkness, he could feel the dampness in his bones and a coldness creeping across his skin, both of which had nothing to do with mother nature urging him to go back to the place he refused to call home, for it had nothing worthy of it. No, the cold and chill in his bones had everything to do with the dead slab of stone in front of him. Some of the others had names so washed out, you could only guess how old they possibly were. Most were from the last hundred years, though. Old to many, and yet so young to him.

The one before him, well… it was empty. A coffin unfilled, a gaping void with nothing inside. It was as if he could feel its emptiness through the stone, through the dirt and through the grass. It was a feeling in his chest, telling him second by second that there was no one there, no one to hear him, no one to comfort him. The abyss had not left a single piece of him behind for the rest to take, not a cloth or a tag, and here he was, left with hands as empty as the box below.

A voice rang so clear through his head, speaking words he wished to forget before they would drag him under, and he could never rise again. It was Dugan, lying a heavy hand on his shoulder and speaking a truth he would rather not hear, for the ignorant bliss suited him so much better. _"Steve… you must know some things only take and never give back. The abyss has a hunger that can never be stilled."_

The stones stood silently, row upon row like soldiers long forgotten. Who was ever to remember any of them? Any of the people who had given their lives for a pointless war, of power hungry folks getting their hands on weapons too powerful for their own good?

"I should’a come earlier," he whispered, voice so heavy he was surprised he could even speak at all. It cracked a little at the edges, bleeding sadness from its every pore, guilt, regret, it was all there.

Biting back his breathing, he tried to listen, listen for any whisper that might turn back and reply, any turn or twist of nature to show there was more on this Earth, and someone was listening. Perhaps it would be the rain granting him a fragment of a memory, or perhaps the wind would take mercy and let him hear the conversations of old, but of course, there was none. Just the eternal drum of the rain and the breeze around the old cemetery.

"It feels like…" he paused, swallowing back the weight of what he was feeling "A week ago. Just that. Not seventy years, not so long. I don’t— It can’t have been. Doesn’t feel like it, anyway. ‘s like it was just yesterday when we…" he sucked in a trembling breath, blinking a few times rapidly, though refusing to turn his head away. "When you followed me into battle. You remember that? You said you’d follow me into the jaws of death, and then you did. You weren’t supposed to _stay_ there, you know."

A dry chuckle like a sob pushed its way up through his throat, something devoid of all mirth, only wet and pained and harsh, scraping his tongue and he tasted salt. It was as if the words refused to be spoken, and his lips would rather keep them hidden inside, but the damage had already been done, the ears for which the message was meant long gone, so what was left to lose?

"You should’ve followed me out, or not have gone in at all. ‘s the deal, nothin’ else." He lifted a hand and roughly rubbed it along his eyes, sniffling quietly. "Should’ve been here with me. Or I with you. Should’ve joined you. Together till the end of the line, and after too." Even saying the words out loud did nothing for the tightness of his chest, as if the cruel ice water could never warm up. "How’s it up there, anyway? I heard it’s nice. ‘s what ma used to say."

But that was not what he was here for.

Clearing his throat, he gave a little shake of his head, snapping himself out of the trance he was captured in. "I came to… um, came to tell you _happy birthday."_ A raw sob tore from his mouth, and he drew in a trembling gulp of air, trying to contain himself before he would reach a point of no return. There was a rawness to it, the pain still a wound torn open so cruelly. He tilted up his head to look at the gravestone of his best friend, working the sad remainder of a smile onto his face. "Happy birthday, pal."

It was not fair.

Blinking rapidly to make the wetness disappear, he squared his shoulders to try and sit proudly. It was all he had left in a world he did not even recognize anymore. He lifted his hand up to his mouth, pressing a soft kiss to the lips before he brought it back to the stone, placing his fingers upon the smooth marble, hoping his gentle love to reach somewhere beyond the stone, beyond the dirt and beyond the veil of life.

"Sleep tight, Buck," he whispered, tucking his hand back into the fold of his backpack, gripping it tightly with his other after he made quick work of putting his gloves back on, the cold biting into his fingers as if it was a vicious predator. 

He scuffled a little closer towards the stone, dirt and mud staining his pants but he did not care. He lay himself to rest upon the grass and the uninterrupted square, his head on the cold stone with only the thin layer of fabric of his hoodie to shield him. He rolled his shoulders, working the cramped muscles a little as he closed his eyes, trying to rid himself of all feeling so that, perhaps, he would finally be able to lay himself down.

Somewhere, he knew very well what he did was not to be done. He knew it was not an idea he should be acting out, not something he should let come true. It should stay in his head, just an idea but never be shown. He most likely should leave, as it was not safe in any way to be out in the open like this, even when it was night and at a graveyard. Who knew who wandered around the place, looking for something or nothing at all? He should get up while he still could, and leave when nothing had been ruined just yet. Still, he lowered himself to the ground, and curled up to a tight ball.

After all, was it not a resting place?

A lazy smile curled across his lips, like the twinkle of a star behind a thick layer of clouds. This was the closest he would ever get to his friend again, and in a way, that was alright. His insides screamed until his throat was sore, but it was the best he could get, and so he appreciated what he had. A soft sigh slipped out, and he closed his eyes. _"Sleep tight. Don't let the bed bugs bite."_

**X**

It was a bright light that awoke him.

A bright light – not the footsteps tapping the wet dirt of the paths and leaves. Not the exhale of breaths spinning up even through the rain. Not the pounding of a heart that seemed to increase steadily, giving a little jump almost as if out of shock and surprise, as if something had startled the poor sod wandering too closely to where he lay, resting like the many empty forms a few feet beneath the ground, their souls entwining through there was little left.

The light cast upon him was a kind of brightness searing into his eyes like his own miniature sun, and he squeezed them shut tightly out of fear of going blind if he dared to open them.

A voice spoke to him, the deep rumble of a man’s throat reaching his ears and he almost wished he could press the button to snooze just like he did his alarm clock in the morning. _Four_ in the morning, that was, the only somewhat reasonable time he could get up after having stared at the ceiling for hours, which was a time that could almost be considered worrying. Not that he would ever tell anyone about it, heavens no.

Though it was obvious around three or four hours a night did not cut it anymore for his body, he could never sleep for more than an hour or two straight. He would always wake up, the sudden fear of waking up somewhere else becoming too much, and most of the time going _back_ to sleep was like stuffing an elephant into a small car and driving off. It was strange because in the war he used to get on fine with three hours of shut-eye. _Everything_ had changed, and he could not even keep his own sleep habit in check.

Tonight, he had not even bothered lying down in his bed. He had other things to do.

The voice could easily be ignored, let it speak, for it did not bother him. There were only a few times when something was meant for him, and he was sure this was not one of them.

It was only when an unexpected hand landed on his shoulder that he _did_ move.

He should have expected it. Should have expected the voice to be coming for him, but between the cold rain shower that was no longer setting off his nerves, and the heat-sucking slab of stone beneath his upper body, barely any part of him felt something for moving. He should not move, should just stay clear and quiet, on the ground taking rest he was unable to find, but a threat was a threat. When something advanced, it was no longer his rational mind thinking, it was years of training and experience kicking in all at once, and he shot up.

The backpack fell to the side, and Steve pushed himself back using a foot and a hand. His other arm came up to shield his face, ready to catch anything thrown at him. His knees then jerked up, protecting the vulnerable area of his belly. His shoulders raised, back tensed and head tilted down to shield his throat.

"Whoa, easy there," the voice rumbled, sounding a little out of breath and started. Steve blinked up, finding the heavy downpour had transcended into a slight drizzle that clung to his eyelashes and seeped down the curls of his hair. Then he saw the hands, held clear in his vision, and Steve went entirely still. The fingers were uncurled, palms towards him in a somewhat placating gesture as the stance was lax. "I’m not gonna hurt ya, kid."

The hood of his zip-up had fallen off his head, and he gave his head a little shake to get rid of the drops clinging so heavily to his every part. He scrambled back somewhat more, away from the empty grave of his friend and towards the side, only the bright light returned and stopped him in his tracks. Like a deer in headlights. It was a flashlight, he realized then, and when he caught sight of the heavy coat the man was wearing, complete with a certain stamp on the shoulder, he knew what had happened.

A guard had found him.

It must be a patrol guard of the graveyard making his rounds, happening to stumble upon here. His shoulders dropped, and so did his arms. He reached for his backpack and held on to it once more, as if he was drowning in the ocean and this thing was his lifeline. The light was averted from his face, instead pointed at his feet, and the guy cleared his throat. "I dunno what you’re doing all the way out here on the graveyard, but it’s _well_ after closin’ time, so you ain’t got any business being here."

It was not a question. Steve did not reply.

The guy – the guard – took a step forward, and simultaneously, Steve pushed himself backwards. The man stopped once more, hands coming up again and the flashlight cast a beam into the sky, disappearing almost right away in the swirling mass of grey above the two of them. The man had no umbrella, but his coat seemed to be lined with a certain something; perhaps it was made rain-resistant, who knew?

"You gotta come with, now, can’t stay out here in the rain." The guard gestured behind him, passing the flashlight over to his other hand. He reached his right one, the now empty one, out towards Steve, clearly to help him up from the ground. Steve still did not move, merely clutching onto his backpack and sitting in the cold mud of a quiet graveyard. The hand beckoned a little, not necessarily impatient, but rather encouraging. "Come on, kid. I'm not gonna get you, if that's what’s nagging at ya."

Steve licked his lips, a little nervously, making a face of thought and conflict, his two sides opposing one another. One side told him to go along with the guard as he had been caught and it was the right thing to do, and his other saying he should not trust a stranger, and it would be safer on his own walking down the road back home himself.

Eventually, the first part seemed to take the victory, presumably because the latter was in no way a more desirable outcome. His apartment was not _too_ far away from the cemetery, but it was still somewhat of a distance to cross, especially on foot. Especially in the middle of the night when it was dark, raining, and just above freezing temperatures. He was soaked to the bone, his stomach empty as a pit, and though his skin was cold and clammy, he was barely shivering anymore. Something he _knew_ was a bad sign.

With a last pointy look, one of disbelief with a dash of wariness, Steve released a breath and took the guard’s proposition, nodding his head to let the other know. The guard stepped aside, gesturing an arm towards his left and Steve clambered to his feet, taking his backpack with him. The guard, a man on the higher side of age, led him down the path. There was no weapon aimed at him, no snarl or bark that he had to be the one up front, no hand on his body pushing him. He could make a run for it and the guy would never catch up. Perhaps the man knew that, and that was why he did not bother.

If Steve did choose to run, the man would not be able to catch him anyway.

"What time is it?" Steve asked, speaking up above the rain. He raised a sleeve to rub along his face, clearing his eyes from the many droplets still coming down on the both of them.

The old man hummed something in response, lifting his arm to take a look at the watch clasped around his wrist, his other hand holding the flashlight still, shining it in front of him to keep the bumpy path in sight. "Four-thirty. What time did ya get here?"

"One-fifty."

No other reply met him in return, and Steve could practically feel the surprise _ooze_ off the man. He had been here for almost three hours. He slept through most of it, anyway. He thought he would just lie down for a short nap, that was all. Apparently his body needed it more than he thought. Perhaps he should not have gone out the night before, but it was not as if sleep came to him that easy anyway. Or perhaps he should have slept during the day, but that would have drawn the attention of various agents he would rather not think of.

Truly, the last thing he needed was Fury asking questions again. The man had a way of asking, with a certain tone of voice that made Steve want to confess everything he had done wrong just to get away from it. And the way his one eye, a deep pool of dark brown, stared into his own, looking straight through him, seeing everything there was to see, even when he worked so hard to keep it hidden, and— _oh no_. Steve swallowed thickly, hands flexing and curling to tight fists, a darkness clawing around in his head.

Soldiers had to follow orders, obey, not run off in the dead of night and wander around graveyards. Fury was _not_ going to be happy when he heard about his nightly trip.

"How’d you end up here, kid?" the guard asked, fumbling with a set of keys in his hand as he opened the lock to a little house, somewhere removed from the stones. Steve supposed it was meant for the guards, a wooden structure easy to set up and break down again, so that they had somewhere to come from and return to at their shifts. They went inside, where it was not much warmer than outside.

"Steve," he replied, hoping to avoid the question.

The man gave him a short look, stilling in his movements shortly, as if mulling over the word he had been granted, before giving him a considerate nod. _"Steve…"_ He worked the word around his tongue, trying it out, "Alright. You can call me Joe. So, you came here alone, _Steve_ , or are there any more youngsters scrambling around the place? If there are, you better tell me now, my boss won’t be happy if I discover the rest tomorrow. You came by car? Bike?"

The guard – Joe, as he called himself – pushed the door shut behind the both of them, but he did not lock it; something Steve was grateful for. It was a flimsy door, surely, but the click of a lock never failed to make his heart jump, or his muscles tighten in direct response. He deflated a little, standing there all lost, having no idea what to do next. Answer the question, sure, but should he sit? There were three chairs set around a small table, meant to sit in, but he was not sure if he was allowed to. The guard had not said anything about sitting.

"No, sir," Steve replied, "I came alone. On foot."

He saw no harm in admitting that. The man was old, alone, and Steve was a trained World War Two fighter with superhuman capabilities. Even if the man would lock the door, he could easily yank through the lock. Even if the man came at him, Steve could have him on the floor within two seconds, with no breath left in his lungs, and a heart standing still. There seemed to be no weapons in the small hut either, no knives, pokes or sharp objects. Just a table, three chairs and a portable heater. Not to mention something as simple as a touch could have horrid consequences.

"Whatta’bout your parents then, hm?" The old man pulled back a chair and let himself fall into it with a grunt, then he let out a deep breath. He gestured for the other chair, eyes clearly signaling for him to sit down as well. "I could give them a ring if you’d like, so they know to come pick you up, no trouble."

Steve kept standing. "I’m afraid you would have to call another colleague for that."

A set of eyes swept up and down his appearance, crinkling softly at the edges with a kind of compassion. "Sorry, kid."

Despite the painful contraction of his heart, another piece chipped away, it was only a shrug he offered in return. It had been years, after all, even when he did not count the ice. People told him to move on with his life, to stop thinking about it so often, but it was difficult. He did not know what was worse, people telling him to his face he was holding on to things that were gone, or the people avoiding any such directness as if playing parkour, as if it would break him if they dared to bring it up. Perhaps it would.

It was difficult trying not to think about the woman who had given her everything for him, always looking after him first, putting his needs even above her own since the day he was born, protecting him from all that was evil and bad, even when it dragged her down with it. It was like a knife to his heart, one that turned and twisted, ripping through the flesh, and he had trouble breathing.

The guard let out something of a sigh, grabbing around in his pocket and pulled out a phone. Steve had to keep a huff of laughter from bubbling up his throat, for it would seem terribly out of place, and he did not want to make the man feel he was laughing at _him_. He may be from the 1930s, but even he knew that flip phones were not really used anymore, and people had moved on to touch screens with Facebook and Twitter. Listening to music on that thing was most likely not possible, and he knew how much people liked listening to their music.

"Listen, I..." trailing to a halt of words, the man sighed once more, somewhat deeper this time, giving his head a little shake as if still trying to process it all. "I don't want to call the police, alright? I really don’t, that’s just a lotta trouble we both don’t need. You did not destroy any gravestones, and you're obviously not one of 'em arses taking the place apart, but the graveyard is closed for the night, you must have known this."

Steve could barely get his head to nod, looking up with wet eyes and guilt enwrapping his heart, squeezing too hard for him to breathe. "I just wanted to see my friend."

The other man had no answer for that, and he bowed his head almost as if in a sign of respect and sorrow. Perhaps it was, his way of giving him some dignity even when what he was told made no sense. The man had likely been working here for quite some time, and thus he must be aware who the graves were for, he must know the time periods this cemetery was divided in. Considering the age of the stones, what Steve said about a friend must sound strange to his ears, though he chose not to address it. At least, not directly.

"Sometimes, we get folk over who leave flowers or trinkets at the new graves down at the hill," the guard said then, "They weep and speak to the graves, finding some last comfort or closure. Especially after the… _Incident_ , people wonder that if there’s creatures fallin’ from the sky, there may be… you know, ghosts, as well. A way across. Is that what you were doing?"

"Something like that."

"Alright, 'cus the new graves are down the hill. You were lyin’ at the old graves. The ones from World War Two." There was a short pause, and Steve could feel the eyes drill into the side of his head, trying to catch his eyes and see some kind of reaction. Perhaps he thought Steve was lying at the wrong grave.. "Was it a grandfather? An uncle?"

Steve did not answer.

Perhaps the old man thought Steve was bonkers and now tried to gently tell him he was out of his mind, wanting to know a phone number to call his nurse to take him back to the mental institute he had undoubtedly escaped from. He didn’t want to go to the farms. Bucky’s uncle had ended up there after the Great War, and the only stories Steve had heard about it was of terror and torture. People did not usually go there to get better, they went there to be detained.

They were said to be a danger to themselves and those around them.

Not to be controlled.

Too sick to function.

He should not have come here.

"Well, then, err." Realizing no answer would be given, the guard named Joe sat up straight in his chair. He had his phone still in hand, and a few numbers rushed through Steve’s head. Five of which he knew would never be answered. Not anymore. The guard seemed to look at himself and around him for a moment before lifting his head back up. "Right. ’m sorry, but I don’t have a coat or anything for you…"

Steve tilted his head to the side. "I'm not cold."

"You were lying in the raging rain for at least two hours, if not more, on the night of early March, I ought to call a _hospital_."

"I'm fine."

 _Don’t be so harsh, he’s just trying to help_. Steve shifted his weight from one leg to the other, feeling the urge to swing his arms or fiddle with his hands but he pushed it away. He eyed the chair, but did not sit down. He then eyed the man, and a stone sunk in his stomach when he saw the topic had not been dropped yet. In the time he had been awake again, his silences were the ends of conversations, but this man did not know who he was, so his silence was not a blockade.

It should be. He did not want to talk, did not want to explain, did not want to tell the other he could survive many worse things than some rain and some cold, but he was tired. There was no point. He only barely managed to find these small purposes for himself, but he felt twice as empty after completing them.

"There is… _someone_ , you could call," Steve said quickly, hoping to pull himself from his thoughts before they would derail into a spiral of bad and worse.

Perhaps if the man had someone to call he would stop asking about the rain and the graves. There was one number in his head he felt more comfortable about than the others, so he supposed it was the one he should offer. After all, he got what he came for, did he not? He saw the grave, bid his friend good night, lying with him during the coldest hours, and now it was time to return to the house. Not his home. The house.

The guard still had his phone out, now casting a gaze up at him with a single eyebrow tilted slightly. _Come on kid_ , the man’s expression told him, _you’re gonna tell or what?_

Drawing in some air to fill his strangely empty chest, he began spelling out the digits of the phone number he thought the man should call. Well, he did not think the man should call _anyone_ , as he would rather go back to the apartment alone, lie down in bed and wallow in his misery for a little longer before it was time to get up and he would act as if nothing had happened – just like the other nights he had sneaked out, but he knew he had to. He would hate to leave a hollow feeling in the guard’s stomach as he went away.

As the guard tapped in the numbers, and in the meanwhile, finally, Steve sat himself down on the empty chair. He did it gingerly, as if afraid someone would pull it out from under him at the last moment. No one actually would, as there was no one there to do it, but the worry remained. It was difficult to focus, his thoughts jumping all over the place, and he could not put his mind to just the one. His friend’s grave, the guard, the phone, Fury, SHIELD. It was a lot, a messy pile. He watched the other man, staring at him as if he was able to read his mind and tried to steal all the secrets from his head.

It was not the man’s mind he was interested in though, but his phone.

He shivered, in both the chilly air and of worry, and then shoved his hands between his legs, but it was heavy with cold water, and no warmth reached his fingers. Even from his spot in the chair, halfway across the room from where the guard was standing, Steve could hear the familiar voice ring through the line.

_"Coulson."_

Steve swallowed thickly.

"Uh, hi," the guard answered, holding the phone a little tighter. His other hand came up to pinch at his nose shortly, rubbing at his forehead as he tried to gather his right words, and Steve felt guilty for putting him in this situation. "This is Joe, of Evergreen memorial park, the cemetery? Yeah, I’ve got a soaking wet young man on my hands, having snuck into the place and now waiting for someone to come pick‘m up. He gave me your number."

 _"What kid?"_ Coulson asked, coming from the other side of the line.

Judging from his voice, the agent sounded a little curious, and a lotta confused. He had not expected this. Steve gripped the edges of his seat tightly, a sudden wave of irrational fear and panic flooding his senses and it was like a punch in the gut, almost having him keen over to try and gasp for air. He took a strenuous breath, barely able to suck it in far enough for it to reach his lungs.

"Blond hair, blue eyes," the guard answered, casting Steve a short look, only just catching the expression of blank terror on the younger man’s face, but it was too short for the man’s brain to fully register it before his eyes were back at the wall. "Says his name is ‘Steve’?"

A short silence fell.

Steve couldn’t breathe.

_"I’ll be there in twenty. Tell him to wait there for me."_

With a _beep_ , the call ended, and the man lowered the phone. He looked at the screen for a moment more before flipping it closed and shoving it in his pocket. Then his eyes found their way back to Steve. "The man, Coulson, picked up, told me to tell you to wait for him. Heh, seems like you didn’t lie about it."

Steve bit back a huff, something of near indignance. "I don’t like lying."

To that, Joe lifted a hand, waving it in his direction with some kind of energy behind it. "You know that, that’s a good thing, Steve. Gotta teach yourself young not to lie, or it’ll slip into your system and you’ll lie more and more. ‘s gonna come natural at some point."

A brief thought of running away popped up in his mind, but he shoved it to the background. Joe rubbed a finger along his chin, almost thoughtfully. "See, my little niece does it a lot, lying. ‘s not her fault, though. My sister’s… I can’t call her that, but she ain’t it, let’s keep it at that. My niece, she lies about things that dun’ even matter, ‘cus she’s scared to tell the truth. She lied about her favorite color, can you believe that? She thought pink would appease her mother more, while she loves green."

This was not just some random small talk; Steve wondered what was going on.

"She lied about grades, problems, her health, everything. She’d lie about the weather while we’re outside. Lie to appease. Lie to avoid conflict. Lie to try and make herself seem unimportant. Point is, it’s gotten into her system, and now, even when she’s out, it won’t leave." Their eyes crossed, and Joe gave him a look so sharp Steve’s hand jerked back just a little, almost in a reflex, fingers curling into his wet pant leg. "Don’t let that happen to you."

 _Lie to appease. Lie to avoid conflict_. His heart refused to settle down. Steve swallowed, lips parting but barely any sound came out. A niece. A sister. Lies. Why would the man tell him this? He licked his lips, throat and mouth suddenly dry. "I don’t understand."

"Don’t lie to the people close to you to please them. Don’t force yourself into the background when you should be in the center."

Steve blinked. "I don’t have anyone close to me."

"That’s a lie."

It really was not.

After the passing of what he guessed were fifteen minutes, Joe rose up from his chair and in turn, Steve did as well. Subconsciously, he took a step back, creating more distance between the both of them. Had the man noticed, he chose not to say anything. Instead, the old man went to the door and opened it, revealing the world of darkness and rain behind it. It had not stopped at all, and Steve could feel the shivers creep beneath his skin.

Part of him wished he had never left the apartment, the other part told him it had been the best choice. He had done it for Bucky, after all. For his friend, not just himself. He could not turn away because of some rain. He could not be hurt by it, pneumonia no longer threatened him at every turn and twist, the common cold could only graze him through a cough or a sneeze, but would leave as soon as it came. Rain was not his enemy.

"Let’s get to the gate then, hm?" the old man proposed. He turned his flashlight on and held it out before him, the stream of light spilling out into the planes of nature and stones.

Steve followed him, feet heavy as lead. Both of them hunkered over, trying to shield their face and neck from the cold drops. He supposed he could have brought an umbrella, but he did not have one, and did not know where to get one. He could ask SHIELD, he knew he could, but he never did. Every time he had asked for help they looked at him as if he was incapable of doing anything for himself. As if he was a young child who barely knew how anything worked, and needed to be talked to as if he was a toddler.

It must have been a little more than fifteen minutes, because a familiar car was standing at the side of the road next to the gate, headlights flashing into the night. Steve swallowed, and gripped his backpack a little tighter. There was still time to run. Still time to flee. Still time to get away and act as if none of this had ever happened.

A man stepped out holding an umbrella above his head, dressed in what seemed to be an outfit haphazardly thrown together, which was unusual for a man who Steve knew put thought into how he looked. He must have been at home in his comfortable clothes when he was called. Not in bed, though, his voice had sounded too awake for that. Perhaps Coulson had been working on files again, that often kept him up till deep in the night. He should have just left.

"Steve!" a voice called out, ringing above the ring.

An ice cold stone plunged into his stomach.

There was little need to prompt, barely any need to have a word from Coulson in. He listened to the man rattle off some, speaking of rain and cold and the hour of the night. Steve was aware of it all, so very aware, and he purposely avoided Coulson’s eyes, afraid to see things he would not be able to forget again.

Steve whispered a barely audible ‘thank you’ to the guard, as his sense of a goodbye, before he stepped forward and towards the car. It was unlocked, so he opened the door and crawled into the backseat, dropping his backpack on the floor. It was warm inside, and he shivered again, pulling the door shut and plastering himself in the corner to put on his seatbelt. The car was almost eerily clean, perfectly vacuumed and polished, just like these kinds of SHIELD cars always were. Clearly a work-borrowed vehicle. Mainly because he knew if it was up to Coulson, Lola would never be standing still for longer than a day.

Coulson took another moment outside to talk to the guard, to Joe, but Steve did not even _want_ to know what they were talking about. _Him_ , most likely. There was little doubt in his mind it was some kind of debrief on when and where the guard had found him, what he had said, what he had done, things like that. Part of him feared Coulson was trying to figure out whether or not the man would press charges. He had been lucky; had it been some asshole he would have been sued and then get screamed at by a figure of higher authority.

A few minutes later, the door to the front seat opened, and Coulson stepped in. He closed his umbrella, and then put it on the ground in front of the other seat. The door closed, Coulson worked his hands around the keys and the steering wheel, and soon they pulled up from the sidewalk, moving onto the road. The sudden pull pressed his stomach further down his belly, dropping it in an abyss and he could feel the last bits of the previous day’s breakfast churn hotly. He should have eaten something.

It was only after a few minutes that the silence was broken.

"Steve, I—" Coulson cut himself off, clearly unsure of what to say. Even from this distance, in the semi darkness of the car, Steve could see the man's hands wrap around the steering wheel, fingers clenching a little tighter. Though it was probably mostly worry, he could not help but feel it was anger as well. Anger he had to get all the way out here. Anger because he had to deal with Steve's mess. Anger because he was wasting gas for this useless trip.

A sharp breath slipping out between teeth. The rough shake of a head. "When we said you needed to get out more, this is not what we meant." Giving another jerk of his head, Coulson pressed his lips to a thin line, a tight set now creeping into his shoulders. The tightness now also came to his voice, words forced out harder than he probably meant. "You _know_ this is not what we meant. Not in _any_ way is this acceptable behavior. You–" another sigh, deep and heavy. "What were you thinking? _Were_ you even thinking? You can’t just–"

"It's his birthday," Steve choked out.

The silence fell like a bomb – he could know.

Steve listened to the purr of the engine, pressing his cheek against the cold glass of the car window, trying to use it to wash out the vile thoughts of his head. Soon, Coulson would ask him another thing. Ask him something he could not answer without a lie, something he knew he had to be honest about, but just could not be. And it was not necessarily about himself, but it tied in. It tied into everything.

And there it came.

"Are you sure you’re ready for your next assignment?"

Steve never wanted to go on that assignment in the first place, not so soon after New York, after waking up, after trying to find his place but not knowing where to start. He never wanted to go anywhere near it with the little amount of information they gave him, the risks, the uncertainty, the hidden enemy and the unclear goals, but he knew that if he refused to do the job, someone else would have to do it instead. 

If he refused, someone else would have to go in with that little amount of information he had been given, someone without super strength and speed, without experience and accelerated healing. Someone who would not be able to get shot and walk it off. He did not want to think about what could happen if it all went wrong, and at least he had no family to leave behind in tears. If it was not him, it had to be someone else. Another facing the risk never to return home, another family member ripped from a loving grasp.

What must be done must be done, and he was not putting people in danger just because he could not handle a simple mission.

"I’m fine," he answered, "I can do this."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hiraeth: a homesickness for a home to which you cannot return, a home which maybe never was; the nostalgia, the yearning, the grief for the lost places of your past


	2. Sciamachy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: This chapter is the one where I used the "bugs & insects" and "hallucinations" tag for. 
> 
> Thank you all so much for your comments I absolutely adore them and I'm so grateful💙  
> I hope you enjoy this chapter just as much🥰

A veil of darkness settled over the sleepy town as twilight faded to evening, the stars tucked away behind heavy clouds that rolled across the sky, a dark promise of rain and storm.

Large drops of rain splattered onto the road while the wind whispered through the deserted streets of the small town. Not a single soul dared to leave their home tonight, as they sensed the impending danger that lurked beneath every tree in the dooming forest below the horizon, lingering outside every window.

Near to all nights, their fear of the dark would be considered childish, laughter cast at their worries, but not tonight. Tonight, the gates were opened, and all things evil had their chance to play.

Those things wicked picked their target, and set the chase.

The fields and woods he approached in his frenzy were even more devastated than the village beyond. Farmland had been burnt to cinders, and trees chopped down from where they had once been tall and proud. All where he looked around him, the world was nothing but rubble and ash, left by the force of destruction that was humans with a purpose.

He stumbled upon a vast wall of primordial trees. Mist seeped from every crack of the forest like an evil miasma. Hesitation took hold of him as he slowed to a jogging pace, and he bit his lip in thought, the damn fabric of his suit itching and chafing against his skin. Strange sounds like deep dark whispers came from the forest, all color sucked out of the trunks and leaves and grounds until only the sinister shades were left. Behind him, the roaring of engines approached swiftly, and as he looked over his shoulder, he caught sight of the advancing headlights bobbing up and down in the distance.

There were shadows everywhere, on the ground, in the trees, above and side to side. Blotches of darkness spread where it was not logical for them to be, swirling around and pooling below. He urged himself into the misty bog, feet stomping the ground as he went, but he had not reached a few meters in and he lost his footing. He crashed to the ground, flat on his chest, dipping himself into the dirty mud of the bog. He coughed; once, twice. He pushed himself on his knees, shaking his head as he tried to banish the horrid things he had laid eyes on a mere few minutes ago from his thoughts.

He had to tell the others.

"Rogers to Quinjet, please, come in," Steve pleaded, bringing up a hand to touch his ear, only to hear his com hiss out meaningless static, _"Please_ , where are you?"

More mist seemed to pour out from the trees, and slowly, he was separated from the outside world by a wall of ghastly white swirls like ghosts dooming up in front of him. Steve pressed on further, stepping forward as his eyes darted around, but no one was there. There was only the rumble of cars, and the distant echo of the forest to accompany where no man dared to venture, and neither should he. As he whipped his head to the side, he saw the silhouettes of the vehicles reappear outside the wall of trees.

They approached, driving at full speed as though nothing could stop them, and Steve backed away in fright. He looked behind him, to the deep woods there, fear turning his stomach and he did not know what to do. They had warned him for his forest, their voices clear as day in his head telling him to go around or call for reinforcements to pick him up, but there was no waiting for any others, there was no hope for an escape. There was no choice. 

He turned and ran.

One of the few things he remembered well, as he hurtled through the maze trees while a ghostly fog rose up around him, threatening to swallow him whole, was the adrenaline pumping through his veins, the cold rush taking over when his legs went numb. This was not adrenaline that came out of a place of excitement, as many people attributed adrenaline to. This came out of a place of pure, unwavering _terror_.

Leaves scrunched beneath his boots, and dead twigs snapped as he stumbled blindly through the skeleton hands of the trees that pulled at his clothes like sharp claws, trying to hold him back, pin him down and have him succumb to the horror that was chasing him, telling him to slow down and stay with them forever. Lightning flashed overhead, a silver-forked sky looming over him, thunder peeling and rain drumming in his ears.

Water poured down like a river coming from the heavens, soaking him to the bone and even further. The blue was darkened, white smeared with mud and the red covered more areas than it should. The fabric stuck to his skin, his hair matted and streaked with dirt. He did not know where he was going, or if everything would be alright. All he knew was that he had to keep running. If he just kept running, things would be alright. If he kept running, he would be safe eventually.

The rain fell in crazy chaotic patterns, the gusting wind carrying them in wild vortexes one moment, and in diagonal sheets the next. It ran down his face in a thin layer, not as cold as it would have been when winter arrived and hung in the air like a cold blanket, but it was certainly without the warmth of summer rainfalls that cooled the skin pleasantly. His breath left his lips like a cloud of pale white. His footsteps were fast, mud splashed up as the soles hit the ground. It dirtied his shoes and combat suit, but he did not care.

The trees were like a maze around him, looming up before him through the dark and the water blurring his eyes, but he kept running. His foot nearly caught beneath a root, but he kept running. He nearly crashed into a tree, but he kept running. He kept running. He _had_ to. 

They could sense it, he was certain, the overwhelming sense of panic. Like dogs and fear. He forced his steps to be careful and precise, yet as quick of pace as he possibly could. They had dogs. Big, vicious dogs bred and trained for the hunt and injected with all things unholy and bad in this world. He could hear the barking and howls echo around the forest. Their adrenaline as wild as his, foaming at the lips as they growled and chased their target. He was used to being the hunter, to be the one chasing the other, but he was not ready. He was not ready. He was not the hunter. He was lost and panicked.

He was the prey.

The forest was enveloped in darkness, his rasping breath steamed in the chilly air and his throat was parched from thirst. As he ran, a ball chain with two metal tags bounced up and down his chest, flinging in all possible directions as he moved as fast as he could. More branches of the trees pulled at his clothes, thorns ripping through the only skin that was not covered. His feet slipped outwards on the wet, late-winter leaves as he rounded the corner, the cold evening air shocked his throat and his lungs hurt as he inhaled deeper, faster.

His foot slipped outwards on the muddy, soggy forest floor as he rounded the corner, he almost fell, but sheer fear and adrenaline made him keep on going. It was his endurance that kept him up and about, faster than any other human could, for there was no other option available. Even the dogs had trouble catching up.

With each footfall a jarring pain shot from his knee to his ankle, a small metal ball still stuck in the bend. Perhaps jumping down that high tree trunk had not been a smart idea; it had made him a visible target. The bullet tore through the flesh that knitted itself together again every few seconds, repeating the cycle of hurt and healed. A few other bullets did the same, one snug behind his collarbone, another through his lower ribs, and a fourth in his hip. They were wedged in between the muscles and the bones, the outer skin slowly healing, leaving no hole to dig the bullet out through again. Soon, it would be too late.

In his chest, his heart pounded frantically. It was all or nothing. Failing meant his whole body would pay the price, running meant the damage would mostly be limited to his shins and knees, and with his accelerated healing, he knew he would soon be healed again. Mud smeared his sweaty face as sweat dripped from his matted hair, mingling with the rain.

Every noise he heard, every crack and every twitch, made his head whip around wildly, afraid the squad would charge after him, appear from the dark cracks of the forest, doom up before him like dark spirits of the forest, and drag him back to the warehouse where they could have their way and do anything they wanted to him. From a distance, he heard the quickening thuds of feet as they began to approach, the roar of a jeep close by.

He heard his heart thumping in his head and his legs began to quiver like jelly. His body screamed at him to stop, to rest, but he pushed forward and continued to run, run, run and keep on running until he was safe and sound at home.

_Home…_

He had no home.

The sound of his own feet snapping twigs reached his ears. He begged his feet to go faster, urging them with all he had without losing his fast pace. Pushing and whipping branches and leaves out of the way of his face, he looked ahead of him to the distance he had yet to go, his shoulders slumping as he only saw more trees, not even a path, but he kept on running, running like the wind, knowing one little mistake could mean the end. 

After a while of frenzied speed, his head too full and pain buzzing through his body like a beehive, he forgot to watch where he was going. Before he could divert his gaze from his surroundings and aim it back at where he was running, his foot caught beneath the curl of a tangled, mossy tree root, and he tripped.

The earthly ground rushed up to his face as he thudded to the ground in a harsh fall, landing face first in a patch of large, pitch-black mushrooms.

The plants quivered, feeling threatened by the sudden advance on their patch, and they unleashed a cloud of dusty pollen into the air in response. As Steve lay there, almost frozen in place, dark purple smoke forced its way not only into his mouth, but also into his nose, his throat, his eyes. He scrambled away and coughed, scraping his throat deeply, stomach contracting and chest heaving but nothing came out. He tried to fan the pollen away from his face, but it was too late. 

_I’m going to die…_ Those words choked his mind as he struggled to get to his knees, kicking up leaves and dirt. He turned to his side, gasping in air when pain pulsed through his hip, the one with the bullet stuck in deep, and he cried out in pain and near desperation. He could barely push himself upright. Instead, his head whipped around in fear, the palms of his hand bleeding a little from his fall, but it was nothing compared to the state of panic and pain he was already in.

The many thumping footfalls slowly make their way up to his limp shaking body. He could hear them rustle in the bushes, still a couple steps behind, but they were there. They came in the shadows, with darkness in their eyes and death in their hands. Every time he saw a shadow creep up on him from behind and he turned around; it was gone. In the blink of an eye. Nothing more than his imagination running wild. The dogs howled. 

What did they tell him again?

The briefing session, information stowed upon him, not too much but just enough, what had they told him? They had spoken of scientists ripping through forests, strange sightings, creeks spoiled and reeking of decay. They had spoken about dangerous substances, unknown concoctions.

What had he breathed in?

Not having another second to lose, he picked himself up from the ground, hurrying his way to safety. He had to be faster than them, he had to get away. If only the sun would come up, if only the light would chase away the dark shadows that clawed at his legs, trying to make him trip once more. It was still dark, not even the moon there to light his path or show him where he was. But the smoke was so thick, like thunder clouds hanging low, and he–

A loud screech had him jump back in fear, bumping his back against a tree that oozed black oil like blood. Terror spread across his face and he backed away in horrid disgust, feeling his stomach turn at the very sight. He opened his mouth in a gasp when he saw an owl sitting on that tree, carrying only empty rotten sockets where its eyes had once been, its body nigh but bones slick with decayed flesh. It screeched again, swooping down right to thrust out its claws at Steve’s face. A scream tore free from his throat, and he ducked to evade it, feet throwing himself into a run once more.

He was not ready.

There was no way he should be here, at the warehouse at the edge of the city, where people spoke with hushed voices and foreign tongues. A place where they brew in their make-shift lab, and where lifeless bodies lay stacked outside like a pile of building blocks meant for little kids. He was not ready; a newborn fawn standing on quivering legs, looking left and right at every turn and twist of the forest, at every noise and flicker of light, only to freeze in the headlights of an approaching car. He was not ready, by far. He should have listened to them.

They wanted to give him more time, but he did not. It was no, and then it was yes. He was confused. He wanted this, but he dreaded the same. He wanted to go out, but did not want to go back. He wanted the peace of sleep and void, but he hated the pain and the fear.

Frantic heartbeats pounded in his throat, as if his heart was willing to jump out through his mouth and escape by itself. He begged his own body to not give up just yet, to go faster as more owls screeched around his head, out for his blood with snapping beaks and swishing claws. The trees that loomed from the shadows all around him looked almost human, with their tall bodies and stretched arms, their fingers gigantic claws that could rip him to shreds, vines hanging low on him, trying to tangle him in their web.

Large, hooded fires of black mass peered at him through the fog and haze. He touched a tree, pulling back in horror when it was covered with black goo that now stuck to his hand, smoldering and smoking like fresh ashes of a wildfire.

Getting to a small hill, he jumped— or, he _tried_ to. The ground seemed to crumble beneath his feet, and he took a wrong step, tumbling down the small dip that ended in a narrow ditch filled with murky water. As his feet broke the surface, a foul smell entered his nose, pungent like sulfur, and he coughed, gasping for air that was not there. He fought to get up from the mud he had sunken halfway into, clawing his hands through the dirt. Only it was not dirt he took hold of, and his hands grabbed onto other things, small things that lay there, he knew not what.

When he looked, he saw they were no leaves or branches or anything— they were rotten bird carcasses. Maggots crawled around the bodies that had burst open like overripe grapes, flees swarmed, blood poured from torn wounds he had opened with his fingers. He whimpered, small cries flowing passed his lips as he had grappled into rotten flesh and blood-smeared feathers. He retched, pushing himself up and running again. It was all he could do; run. Run until he collapsed and could not run anymore.

And as he ran, more terrors raged at him from the swirling mist through his pained eyes. The hooded figures towering out above him, like black fog taking the shape of a human, fluttering like large capes and looming over him with a feral predatory glare. The owls screeched at him; wind howled in his ears though he felt no draft against his skin. He stumbled through, nearly falling in a heap to the ground, feet pulling through thick mud, sloshing and sucking.

He stumbled once more, trying to regain his balance as a gigantic vampire bat screamed at him from the tree, and another, flaring their wings and he stumbled back. Huge, skeletal forms cracked out of the bark, forming faces that scowled and snarled at him, lighting up with flashes of white like lightning, but there was no crack of thunder. He sucked in a sharp breath once more, screams forming on his lips, cries and whines, but there was nothing at all.

A large flock of tiny, vicious birds shot towards him from holes in the ground and trees, swarming around him like bees and they tried to pick and claw his eyes out, tear his skin, eat him alive or kill him in a flash. He hit his hands around, failing to hit anything but air. He flailed his arms in unbridled panic, and he groaned and screamed, wondering where his team had gone, where they were now, if they were even looking for him at all— he stumbled around knowing he was going to die.

He ran forward in his attempt to get away from the birds screeching in his ears, replaced not a second later by an excruciatingly loud ring drowning out all the other sounds bubbling up from the forest. A sound that made him raise his hands to cover his ears with, trying to block it out but he could not, and it slipped through the cracks of his fingers to torture him all the same. It was louder than any sound he had ever heard, piercing through his head like a knife, like the echo of a gong right beside his head, making his brain explode and his eyes pop out of his skull.

Another giant bat with wings like rotten flesh and bone snapped out at him. He sprung backwards, to escape, to get away from the horrors that threw themselves at him. He had not estimated it rightly, though, and his heel caught onto something, tilting his entire body backwards. His head crashed against the knot of a tree, a sharp pain pulsing from the back all the way to the front where it throbbed behind his eyes like a heavy migraine.

A second later, a shot like thunder broke through all the static and the whoosh of rain. Excruciating pain rushed through his back, a sound like bones snapping, all the air forced out of his lungs.

Steve gasped.

He was thrown aside, tripping once more, the adrenaline and pain flinging him forward, his legs going weak. Before he knew it, he was rolling down a small hill, unable to get himself back up in his momentum. He tumbled, around and around, arms and legs flailing as to get a hold of something that would ensure his safe landing, but there was nothing. He could do nothing as his body thumped against stones, roots and bumps on his way down, bruising at every possible angle, bullets ripping through him from the inside.

His arms flailed out in all directions, trying desperately to grab hold of something, but the hill simply was too steep. He had too much momentum, too much force, and he tumbled down, hitting rocks and branches and more without being able to set his fingers in any of them for grip. It was almost as though time went slower, or perhaps his fall just never ended, and he was forced to fall down the hill until there was nothing left of him, until nothing mattered anymore. He rolled until the end, crashing his head against a much larger rock that stopped every movement.

Eyelids trembled, water pouring down from the darkened heavens still, his face dunked in mud. Sand filled his mouth, the sharp taste of old copper pennies coating his tongue as if they had melted on his tongue. He blinked, barely. Something buzzed in his ear. Static. A voice. It hissed. Buzzed. Went silent. Then it hissed again. He blinked once more, wishing it would just stop and leave him here in peace.

 _"In… now…. Captain…"_ it whined, _"Call in…"_

_"Call in… ca… Captain…"_

_"Captain Rogers…"_

_"… in… Capt…ain Rog-"_

_"Capt... Stev…"_

His eyelids trembled, sweat and rain gushing down his body, his tongue felt like leather against his teeth as air flew in and out in short, strained gasps. The static continued to hiss and spat, but he no longer understood any of it, lost in the static of his own head.

Knowing nothing else, he closed his eyes, and tuned out everything but his own heartbeat.

**X**

The gentle breeze picked the first browning leaves of the trees, bringing them down in twirling pairs as they so grazed the forest floor. 

It was getting colder, the sun hidden behind the expanse of grays, some of which would soon become dark and heavy. It had rained quite a few times in the past days now, and it had only been luck their way back to base had gone without any further obstacles. The tanks stolen from their enemies had proved surprisingly powerful, though, as they ploughed through mud-pools easier than any of their own cars would. Though he felt little for using any of those himself, he would not deny they would come in handy later.

And while they so marched on, Steve could not help but sneak peeks at his side every minute or so. It was strange to be walking next to his friend now that he was so tall, reaching out above him in the same way it had been before they departed, only reversed, and he was unsure if he liked it or not. 

It used to be Bucky towering above him, making Steve an easy armrest to lean onto so obnoxiously with a playful sigh, but which had always made him laugh. Now he was tall, _big_ even, and he could not help but wonder what his friend thought of it. It was only understandable Bucky was curious; how could the man not be? It was just that Steve wasn’t sure what to tell him about what happened. That thought turned his stomach into a knot: he always told Bucky everything.

"You’re gonna love ‘em," Bucky said then, lifting his head. He was still carrying one of those dreadful weapons in his hands, glowing a bright blue able to suck in and blind anyone who looked at it for too long. Steve had been feeling tempted to rip it out of his hold for a while now, but he never did. "Dugan, Jones, Morita, Dernier, they’re great. Bunch of stubborn knuckleheads, just like you. Maybe that’s why I felt so drawn in."

A bright grin flashed across his face, lighting up his steel blue eyes, making those scratches and bruises disappear just for a moment, as if they had never been there and nothing awful had happened to either of them. As if, for just this moment in between the wing flap of a butterfly, everything was alright. Steve wondered if it would ever be for real again, for things to just be okay, and not a field of shredded pieces he had to search back together under the scalding sun for even the smallest of pictures.

"You and me, pal, till the end of the line."

When Bucky fell, he should have known a crash would not kill him. It did not matter he had never fallen deeply before, it did not matter there was no way he could have known beforehand, it did not matter he not yet did understand what he could handle and what not. All he could think of after it happened was that he could have jumped after Bucky and lived. He could have made it and protected his friend from a most terrible death in the unforgiving mountains.

The other Howlies made their way over to the front without much trouble, gleeful because they had pulled off yet another success, but blissfully unaware of the loss that had happened a few wagons down the line. They brought the train to the pre-arranged rendezvous point, ready to unload what was inside, and take hold of its possessions, including the scientist who had rummaged around Bucky’s head and body. Steve was not needed at that moment. The only one who needed him was Bucky, who had long fallen to the deep grounds below. He could have tried to jump, no one would miss him. They had Zola anyway, they had the train.

He should have jumped. Should have tried to save. Not merely stare at the abyss below. The ravine that stretched out beneath, snow coloring pointy mountains white like fangs.

The jaws of death.

Bucky really had followed him there.

As he clung onto the side of the train, with shock and unbridled grief cramping his hands, seizing his heart, tears spilling out the corners of his eyes as he watched how he was removed further and further away from his best friend. From the one who had believed in him no matter what, through every obstacle and difficulty.

The train drove further, the abyss far below, Bucky was gone, and there was nothing Steve could do about it. That hurt. More than anything. That tore a scream of anguish from his throat that ripped his heart, held together only by a thin thread, to pieces. He had cried, cried out to the heavens in a prayer they could make it right and give him back what he had lost. Asked for help, begged for mercy, for his friend to come back to him, but it seemed as though no one was listening. Bucky was gone, and nothing would bring him back.

If only he had tried harder and grabbed Bucky’s hand.

**X**

Long eyelashes fluttered, glossed-over blue eyes stared off into a grey void, vision unfocused, as though he looked at the world through murky waters. Dark and light danced around like fireflies in the air, darting from one spot to the other. The eyes closed, then opened again, droplets clung to dark lashes, rolled down from his matted hair, soaking his clothes and his very being.

A steady rumbling slowly dragged him into the waking world, his mind sluggish and thick with cotton, as if he was trying to wade his way through a lake of quicksand with a snowstorm freezing every single one of his body parts. It was the thrill of an engine, he realized then, a large one. It drummed through the ground, up to whatever surface he was lying on. Blearily, he blinked open his eyes and groaned softly at the light that filtered through. It was no sun, but rather an artificial light.

Wanting to lift a hand to rub his eyes, he groaned once more when he noticed just how much effort it took to even move his fingers. A pain-filled noise escaped him at the ache sent throbbing up his arm to his head, and soon he decided it was too much, so he stopped. His muscles barely cooperated, and he had trouble seeing clearly.

He shook his head, trying to remember where he was, why he was so wet, and why he had been sleeping. Had he been sleeping? He did not feel rested at all, as if he had never closed his eyes in the first place. He remembered a fall, rolling down a hill, a crash, then nothing. His head pounded, and it did not take long before he found out he had a cut in his head, one that was at least two inches long. Blood stuck to his forehead like sticky goo, leaving a long trail along the side of his face. Something moved in his vision, a hand grabbing his, laying it back down.

 _"He’s… conscious…"_ a voice mumbled, hidden behind a mile of thick glass.

Something of a puff came from above him, he felt air graze his face. A scoff, perhaps? He was not sure. Just air. A disagreement.

 _"Barely…_ " that other voice said, _"Bullets… I… bleeding… heal?"_

The surface bucked, a small bump, and he groaned in pain. The half-healed skin of his wounds tore whenever he moved, fiery pulses dragging through his nerves. A hand steadied him, moving beneath his head, slipping under his neck to lift him up a bit. There was... Plastic. Something cold and plastic was pressed against his mouth. He moaned weakly, struggling a little to get it away before he realized what it was. A bottle. Cold water lapped at his lips, ready to soothe his throat, but he couldn’t drink. He wanted it so badly.

The moment some of that water entered his throat he choked on it, then coughed, and the water dribbled down his mouth and throat. Someone cursed. The bottle was gone. He mourned its loss. He reached out an arm to take it back, eyes unseeing. Hushed words reached his ears, his wrist grabbed and lain down once more, his head propped up by someone else’s arm, a ripple like fire dragged through his back.

The plastic returned; he parted his lips. A small amount of water was poured into his mouth. Not enough. He needed more. He lifted his own head an inch, canting himself forward, trying to get more water than the meager mouthful he was given.

They did not agree, the others, and they eased him once more. A hand guided his head back down, soft words of reassurance spoken. The bottle was back. Steve hummed something soft, groaned lightly, and eagerly swallowed the next sip of water. Not too fast, though, or it would go down the wrong pipe again. He was just so thirsty. He wanted the water. Needed it. Something about it brought him a sense of peace. They gave him a little more, sip by sip.

He tried to pry his eyes open to see better, but his resolve was too weak, his eyelids too heavy. His head lolled sideways on whatever it was he was lying on as he drew in a slow, sluggish breath, still tasting mud and sulfur on his tongue. There was a warm hand, softly stroking his hair. It was not necessarily meant to be comforting; a dull throb of pain shot through his head when the fingers touched the sore spot where his head had collided with the tree. A noise of pain slipped across his lips, body wiggling to try and escape the source of hurt, but a gentle hand on his cheek stopped him, warm fingers lying splayed across his skin.

Another attempt; Steve fought to open his eyes, fought the battle with himself to clear most of the blur that obstructed his sight. He looked up, finding the person who was keeping him close. A set of piercing, icy blue eyes looked back at him. Dark, chocolate hair tumbled down a handsome face, a worried one. A mouth set; a sharp jaw peppered with stubble clenched tightly. That was not right. The picture was not right. It should be red. The locks of hair should be ablaze like lava pouring down a steep mountain hill. The eyes should be poison, not steel like ice.

A distant voice broke through his haze, merely a thrill of muffled noises, an echo in his ears— perhaps it was his own. _"Bucky?"_

No.

That’s impossible.

The person moved; Steve moved along unwillingly. The hand settled back on his head, the other on his arm. He listened, for as far as he could, but he heard little. His head was stuffed with thick fog, his throat dry again as though he had not had any water for days. As if he had dragged himself through the desert instead of a wet, cold forest. He longed to have the water back so it could parch his thirst once more, but he could utter no words and the man above him made no motion to get the bottle back.

Silently mourning the bottle’s loss, he made another attempt to move, to get himself more comfortable for it felt as if his back was on fire, stabbed with a knife over and over again. It hurt too much for him to ignore its existence, and he could do nothing to stop it. His eyes twitched once more, trying to get a peek at whoever was there, but his sight was blurred. Names flew through his head, all ending back up at the same one over and over, doing nothing but ripping open a barely-healed wound, bringing back images of snow-capped mountains and the shrieking wheels of a large, metal train.

His attempts to shift his painful body were stopped once more, held back by the person, the oddly familiar person above him, who was also beneath him. A lap. He was lying half in someone’s lap, on their thighs. It was not Natasha, the lack of red hair and green eyes enough to tip him off, and if those had not been clear enough, the voice surely was. The throbbing of his head and body continued, a little stronger now he tried to concentrate, but he had to in order to listen. He could barely make out most of the words.

 _"I… handle… him."_ There was a pause. The voice was deep, vibrating through the air up to Steve’s ears, and he knew it was not Natasha. _"Stop… wor… or…"_

A hand moved him, tried to push him up. A searing agony dragged through his back, his eyes flew open and he cried out in pain. Something cracked in his back, his spine, one part of his bone scraping along another, and it _hurt_. It hurt more than he expected, more than he could remember so every time felt like the first.

The voice cursed again, more panicked this time, noises welling up to higher volumes. Steve keened in pain, sucking in shallow breaths in rapid successions.

Multiple sets of hands turned him to his stomach, quick but careful. He felt them pulling the suit down his back, bearing his skin, looking for the wound that caused him such agony. A moment later, they found it, and Steve let out another pain-filled sound when they pressed something against it. He groaned, trying to kick his legs to make them stop, but they held down his legs, refusing to stop. Something was pushed inside the bullet hole that sat through his skin; his breath hitched, but then a certain coolness spread around the throbbing wound.

It calmed the fire; it calmed _him_.

Just as he began to sag, feeling himself sink into eternally deep waters, he was turned back around, and something was placed over his nose and mouth— a sudden flow of oxygen poured into his lungs. Steve jerked up just slightly, pressing further into the plastic mask. He could _breathe_. The dust of whatever plant he had fallen into filtered out, and when he breathed in there was only fresh air, not the stench and taste of sulfur, or dry flakes that made him cough and gag.

 _"Shh, you… alright,"_ a voice soothed, coming and going like an old radio losing reception. It was nothing like the voices of the men who chased him, nothing like the harsh laughs and yells he had heard such a fleeting time ago, or the fearful screams of test objects. It was something far gentler. _"Just breathe… it’s alright."_

He did what the voice said, taking deep breaths, one by one. In and out. In and out. In and out. The fog in his head cleared, not lessening any of his fatigue, but the throbbing headache seemed to subside, bit by bit. And while he breathed, he noticed the new supply of oxygen did not end, it was not pulled away cruelly, or replaced with some poisonous gas or a sedative. It was just clean air, and it felt _good_.

The light in the rumbling vehicle was dimmed, but he saw the black spots in the edges of his vision slowly disappear.

Someone was smoothing down his brow with their thumb, back and forth, back and forth, a grounding motion that reduced his headache and kept the voices, the bad memories, at bay. Soft voices drummed into his state of half-wakefulness, bugging and rustling around in his head like insects. Though he wanted to move his head away, he lay perfectly still, out of worry the person would leave if he did move. He did not know who it was, not yet, but he _did_ know he did not want to be alone. Not now.

Natasha was not here; he knew because she had not come, he had not seen or heard her, and he wondered vaguely where she could be. Why she was not here.

There was not much time to wonder, though, because a moment later something slipped along his head, something a little rough, and a little wet. Like water. It brushed down the side of his face with such gentle movements it did not hurt, it just felt odd. He frowned, groaning lightly as he moved his arms to shift his position, trying to get more comfortable and gain more knowledge about his surroundings. Somewhat of a struggle ensued; the mask nearly slipped off his face, the wet thing disappeared, and the voice came back to murmur softly at him.

It was a wet wipe, stroked across his forehead and down the curve of his nose. It rubbed around his eyes, moving to smooth down his eyelids and get the sticky grime of the forest and his own blood off his skin. It moved around the oxygen mask, disappearing shortly before coming back again. It took him a fairly long time to understand that someone was cleaning him. The person cleaning him was careful, gentle, and moved with care, carefully drying him after.

 _"It’s okay, Steve,"_ the voice murmured, _"Shh, it’s okay."_

 _"…can’t hear…"_ another voice cut in, a little harsher than the previous, _"…long gone."_

The men, whomever they served, were present in the room, but Steve was not. His body still smarted from the many bruises and cuts the forest had gifted him, but the pain somehow was less bad than before. The exhaustion pulled at him hard, coaxing him to the deep dark, and he felt tempted to give him. His eyes began to droop, blinking low. He heard a soft shushing again. Telling him to rest, that it was alright.

Mind spinning with the question of who this person was, his eyes drooped more until eventually, they closed, and he was pulled back into a deep void.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sciamachy: a battle against imaginary enemies; fighting your shadow


End file.
